


Until The Wind Changes

by Sandbirde



Category: Mary Poppins (1964)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 16:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14429304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandbirde/pseuds/Sandbirde
Summary: Can't put me finger on what lies in storeBut I feel what's to happen all happened before*****************************************************Mary and Bert take a walk through the countryside.https://sketchbirde.tumblr.com/post/179867361229/sandbirde-sandbirde-updated-commission-post-i





	Until The Wind Changes

"I always thought this place was..."

 

She trails off, smudging her feet through the dust as they walk quietly along the well-worn path. This is the same place they always knew, isn't it? Tall, proud trees stretch out overhead, their papery leaves waving - hello or goodbye, she isn't sure which. The grass is clean, drinking up sunlight to its fill and laughing heartily as always. The flowers gossip amongst themselves; no wonder, it's been a while since Mary and her dear companion have set foot in this park.

 

And the animals, of course, singing in the lovesick tune of eternal springtime. They wouldn't dare comment on the lengthy absence, of course; no, they viewed their lady Madonna too reverently. The soles of her shoes may well be saltlicks for how relentlessly the animals knelt to her. They knew of nothing else, expert only in the art of idol worship.

 

Once upon a time, that had been enough.

 

A laugh startles her out of her reverie. It's just as warm and darling as always, and yet Mary can't untie her intestines.

 

"Ah, Mary..." The man strolling beside her smiles, his usual cheeky mirth softly blanketed in a gray mustache. "You could think anything you so pleased, of course. But you always knew."

 

Mary didn't know she was still capable of blushing, but here's that familiar dusting of rosy pink, ever befitting such a lady. She can't bear to look at that mustache anymore. She's trapped somewhere between indignance and denial, and the combination makes Bert's entire face unbearable. She purses her lips and flutters her eyelids at the ground, not seeing his smile disappear save for a tiny, uncertain quirk of one corner.

 

"Hey," he offers like a prayer, "it's still here. It's not the same, but it's here. And so am I, and so are you."

 

Mary coughs, unsure of how to respond. She remembers reading somewhere that humans are never truly in the present moment. Something about the brain processing things a few milliseconds too slowly.  _ Does that matter? Did any of it matter? _

 

If she dies right now - just falls flat on the tawny, perpetually unfinished road and chokes on its false dirt - Bert will take milliseconds to make note of it. And then his stupid human brain has to process grief and sadness and resignation and heartbreak, all in a jumbled mess. He might well be dead himself before he moves past it.  _ They tell you not to watch television, but is that not life - watching things happen to you until your own death hits you before you know it? _

 

Bert had customarily taken her arm when they entered his fantasy world, but here Mary gently removes her arm from his, and kneels beside a flower bush. Some part of her still can't believe this bush is flat on pavement, even though she made it happen.  _ The witch shouldn't be the one in awe of her own magic, should she? _ And yet, here she is, still marveling at how real it all once was.

 

She reaches out, delicately rubbing a leaf between her finger and thumb.  _ Is this dew on the leaf, or rain threatening its integrity? _ She leans over and smells the flowers, but, as always, they smell of nothing but gravel.  _ But who's to say which scent is the truth?  _ She leans back, staring up at the sky.  _ It looks real, doesn't it? It feels real! Sometimes the sky looks like chalk and chalk looks like the sky! Who's to say which is which?! _

 

She's not aware of the tears until she senses Bert standing behind her. He stays a respectful distance away, but she knows how obvious she is. Regardless, she swipes them away in a pretense of keeping up appearances, for she's nothing if not consistent.  _ Practically perfect in every way _ , right?

 

Despite the words not crossing her tongue, they rise like bile in her throat, bitter and burning. There are many such words and phrases caught in that same place, and though the obstruction is purely psychological, she feels as if she might suffocate. She's choking on the whole world at once, all its piecrust promises, and it's too much for her fragile neck to bear. She gives up, releasing an ugly sob before stumbling onto her feet, turning towards Bert, and collapsing into him. He falls backward a bit before catching her, but holds her steady, hoping it might help, but knowing nothing can quiet the heartache of a life lost in a double blink and a jump.

 

They stand for a while, holding and being held in a sad imitation of still life.  _ What an oxymoron _ , Mary can't help but think.  _ Still life.  _ No life could ever stay still, not even a life told in chalk paintings.  _ Only until the wind changes; only until the rain comes. _ She can't sense the wind here. There is no breeze, no hurricane, no revolving of air, no rise of heat or fall of cold. Everything is so oddly unmoving, so paradoxically alive. She feels like a bowl of fruit arranged carefully on a table with a gingham cloth; but someone is bound to knock it over eventually, or consume its contents, or just leave it to rot away, forgotten and unappreciated.  _ This isn't life, just an image of it - an image that cannot last, not for all the idle wishes in the world. _

 

She sighs heavily, feeling the tear tracks cracking on her ruddy cheeks as the silence seems to retreat, then wrap around them - unintrusive, but warm and welcoming. Swallowing, she finally looks up at Bert's face again. It never stopped being familiar, did it? Beneath all the wrinkles and pock marks runs that blue blood she always loved. Lying in the cracks and loosened skin are traces of the coal dust of which she was once (and still) so fond, though she never dared show it. Biting her lower lip, she once again pulls an arm from his grip, reaching her hand up to cup his weathered cheek. He smiles that same old smile, his eyes sparking with that undying flame, and she shoves down thoughts of one day sweeping up the ashes.

 

"Bert." Her voice is quiet, but firm. She needs it to be. "I should like to just walk along a while more."

 

Bert places his hand over hers, ever so lightly, always a gentleman. "Alright, then, Miss Poppins." His tone neither asks nor offers; it only invites the silence back into the fold, as he lowers Mary's hand from his face, waiting for her to take the lead, as she always does. Nothing more need be said as she obliges with a slight tug of his arm, her face returning to a decidedly neutral expression. They fall into lockstep so naturally an onlooker might think them automatons; but there are no observers here, and no casual passersby. For just this fleeting moment, there are only a man, a woman, and a steady world of their own.


End file.
